The Empty Chair
by wayward-pond
Summary: John's waited three years for Sherlock; it all seems for naught. Trapped in memories of his companion, John attempts to release himself from those thoughts at any cost. Warning: alcohol, drugs, attempted suicide
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I dunno, I was just having some bad Reichenbach feels? I've also nearly finished the complete works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and wanted to incorporate a bit of Sherlock's drug issues into the series...anyway, I came up with part one of this (with two more parts that are almost completely written). PS, I'm going to continue working on my Merlin story, I just really needed to work on this first. **

**Warnings: Alcohol, drugs, and attempted suicide**

Setting the nearly empty whisky bottle down next to the long ago forgotten shot glass, John Watson stared at the empty chair across from his. It definitely wasn't the first time he had done this in the three years since he had lost Sherlock. The stupid arm chair began to blur. Getting angry at himself for beginning to cry over _him_ again, John slammed a fist against his seat and stood up to find something else to drink. The kitchen was a mess; dishes were collecting dust in exactly the same spot (much against Ella's suggestions...God, he hadn't seen Ella in over two years) they had been when Sherlock had fallen—no, jumped.

John's head was pounding like a never ceasing drum; he had to scrunch his eyes closed and rest his palms and forehead against the cupboards. Much to his chargin', that salt water managed to escape his tear duct.

"Dammit!" he slammed his palm against the wood. Some solider he had been; some friend.

John remained in that position for what could have been mere seconds or several minutes—he really didn't care, until there was a timid knock at the door.

"John?" It was Ms. Hudson.

John tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling and attempt to force the tears back into his head. Pushing himself off the cupboards with great effort, he ambled towards the door and opened it. Ms. Hudson was standing there with concern written on her face and a biscuit tin.

"I heard banging—are you okay, John?"

Staring at his landlady for a moment he replied with furrowed eyebrows, "What do you think?"

"—It's been so long since you've been out...you've only eaten food from the bakery and these biscuits for the past two months."

"Thank you, by the way," John feigned a cocky smile and took the tin from her hands.

Sighing, Ms. Hudson side-stepped John and entered the flat, "At least let me help you tidy up a bit."

"What happened to 'not your housekeeper'?" John mocked.

"I'm not. Right now I'm being a friend," _because you need one_ silently hung in the air. Scotland Yard had tried getting in contact with John several times since Moiarty's _lies,_ and had even tried to put him on some cases, but his heart could never be in it and he knew no one could ever replace Sherlock. It made him mad that Lestrade had even tried (he hadn't of course, but this was how John perceived it). He hadn't heard from Mycroft in over a year. _Just as well_, John thought. And when he had been in the hospital last December for...well—Molly wouldn't look him in the eyes.

While John remained standing, Ms. Hudson bustled into the kitchen. However, the moment she picked up the last coffee mug Sherlock used before they had been forced to become fugitives together, he exploded, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" His shoulders started to shake.

"Okay, okay," Ms. Hudson held up her arms.

"I just—I just don't want his things moved," John said sullenly.

"Well then, this might be a bad time to bring it up but I got a phone call this morning from that University. They've offered a large sum of money for that chemistry set on the table over there," she gestured to the collection of chemicals and test tubes.

"I don't want that moved either. I don't want things to change." John stated slurrily yet firmly.

"But things have changed; they've been changed for a while."

John paused to open the tin he was holding to take a bite of a biscuit before asking Ms. Hudson to leave as politely as possible, "I was actually getting ready to take a bath before you came up here," he lamely provided.

With a slight incredulous look at her tenant, Ms. Hudson relented and left.

Walking back over to his chair, John picked up and downed the rest of the whiskey bottle.

_No one understands this, _John thought, _I was Sherlock's only friend; he said so himself! And he's gone, gone and can never come back. _John began tearing up again. _'Things have been changed for a while', they were never going to change for the better. _He ran his fingers over the bullet wounds that the wall bore. Then John placed his hand on the skull where he had once hidden Sherlock's cigarettes. A handprint was left in the dust. Lastly, he pushed his finger into the seemingly whole varnished wood of the mantle; causing a concealed compartment to reveal itself when a quarter of the front fell open.

John reached inside and groped until he felt his hand wrap around what he was looking for.

_Scotland Yard really is stupid, _he thought about the "drug bust" they had performed all those years ago. Of all the little quirks and vices Sherlock had, this was the only one to John that was the ultimate kicker. Whenever Sherlock didn't have a case or experiment and found himself twiddling his thumbs, he too often reached for his syringe. He never used cocaine when he was actually working a case, nicotine patches or the occasional cigarette would suffice. But when his friend would have nothing else to give him that jolt of adrenaline his life demanded pursuit after, he'd turn to injections.

John carried all of Sherlock's supply over to his chair before sitting down. He wondered what sort of adrenaline rush Sherlock had gotten when there was nothing but a trench coat and thin air between him and the concrete—

As demure as he was, John cocked a half smile at the thought of that trench coat and cheekbones stunt his mate would always pull. John had wanted to get the coat back from the morgue, but someone had already beaten him to it (who, he could never figure out).

Picking up his beaten laptop, John opened the internet to his homepage, "The Personal Blog of: Dr. John H. Watson." He shakily clicked on the **New Post** button, not really knowing what to write. However, it ended up going like this,

"_The last three years of waiting for a miracle have essentially proved futile. That's it I suppose, bye." _

Of course the software's lovely automatic spell checker saved his last post from becoming an essentially drunk written mess.

It was without much more thought John currently fingered the syringe in his hand and after lifting his sleeve up and tapping his arm several times, pushed the needle into his flesh.

He groaned when he felt the near instantaneous reaction. Taking another syringe, John shot himself up again.

_It's a rather poetic way to go, _he thought through small spasms and racing a racing heart. _The one thing I truly scorned Sherlock for being the way I get to greet him again. Even if I don't see him, at least I'll be out of here. Things were never going to get better._

John could hear Sherlock practically giggling like a girl when he read a poem written for his girlfriend (that was under password protection on his computer). Lastly, John took the last syringe, which was mixed with both heroine and cocaine and forced it through his skin.

Leaning his head back into the chair, he relaxed his right arm and allowed the empty vessel to fall to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Part 2, yay! \(^.^)/ Now for the bad news...the day after tomorrow I'm going camping so I won't be able to publish part 3 for a little while longer *ducks flying lamp*. I'm really sorry but thank you to everyone who's followed/favorited this story and I hope it doesn't disappoint! **

Sherlock sighed and checked his email from his jailbroken iPhone. He didn't get much mail considering he was "dead". Sometimes it was a concerned Molly; apparently several months ago John had been admitted into St. Bart's for heavy alcohol poisoning. Sherlock really missed John, but there were still cases that needed to be done in private and he couldn't risk John's life, or Lestrade's, or Ms. Hudson's.

Closing his mail application, he opened up his bookmarks and clicked on John's blog when an alert message went off. His special blogger posted even more rarely than Sherlock got mail but that didn't matter; Sherlock just wanted to read John's writing and even be amused or aggravated at the inaccuracy of the explanations of past cases.

However today there was a new post! But it was untitled...John usually relished in the use of his "witty" titles.

Clicking on the link he read the only one line that could stop his heart.

"No," Sherlock said aloud; trying to convince himself he didn't just read what John wrote. _He wouldn't do that_. But it was right there in front of his face and every perceivable observation he could deduce from said the same thing, 'John's going to kill himself and it will be all your fault.'

With his coat already half on he had his phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, dialing John.

There was no answer.

Pulling on the rest of his coat he quickly dialed Molly's number.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up—,"

"Black Otter?" Molly used his codename lest one of Moiarty's men hack one of his contact's phone lines.

"Molly!IneedyoutosendanambulancetoBakerStreetright _now!_" His tone was urgent but he was speaking to fast, like when he's on a case and simply needs to blurt everything out at once.

"_What_?" Molly asked.

"Have St. Bart's send an ambulance to 221B _immediately. _John's—I presume John's done something extremely detrimental to his health."

"...Okay, I'll get the paramedics."

"_Hurry Molly!_" He commanded; however, Sherlock couldn't have kept the desperation out of his voice even if he had tried. This was John. Nothing was supposed to happen to John. That's why John couldn't know he was alive right now!

Sherlock opened the door of the abandoned flat he had been staying in the past half year, and began running towards Baker Street, which was 4 blocks away.

Some people would have called this open recklessness. A man who had pretended to be dead for three years blatantly blowing all possible cover by running undisguised through London in the clothes he had been infamous for. Sherlock saw it differently. If John were to die, his entire social hiatus would have been for naught. It no longer mattered if he was recognized. His friend was practically in as much danger now as he had been with a sniper pointed at him.

And Sherlock was going to stop it.

Sherlock's long legs pushed him forward; pumping arms provided the perseverance to make it to his non-forgotten home.

Bolting in the front door, he ran up the steps; ignoring the loud exclamation from across the room. The door to their flat was locked, but that didn't deter Sherlock. He stepped back and kicked the door at it's weak point and rushed into his old living room.

The sight that met him was eery at best; John's back was to the door appeared to only be sleeping in his chair. But Sherlock knew better. There were twenty-four different clues that told him his companion was more than just sleeping. He took it all in as he paced to John's side, _It reeks of alcohol in here, also mould, the panel on the mantle is open, oh God, Sherlock, this is all your fault. _

Sherlock knelt down in front of John next to the discarded syringe, "John? _John?_" Sherlock shook John's shoulders.

"_JOHN?_" Sherlock's face was so expressive when he shouted his cheeks nearly poked out his eyes. Placing his hand on John's neck, Sherlock felt the erratic thrumming of a pulse.

He slid his hand down to John's back and worked the limp body carefully to the floor; laying him on his side.

_Naloxone, I need naloxone_, Sherlock thought just before he heard a scream at the door.

Ms. Hudson stood in the door frame with both her hands covering her mouth.

"_Wha—what the,_" she stammered.

"I don't have time Ms. Hudson!" Sherlock leapt up and began yanking open all the cupboards. "Narcan, narcan, narcan," he repeated several times as a mantra to keep himself calm until he found the bottle he was looking for.

"_How _on earth are you even—_John_! _John, oh my God, John!_"

Forcing himself to keep tears at bay (since no one had ever seen him cry and only John had ever heard him), he fought to get the medicine down John's throat. And as for Ms. Hudson's hysterics over both her surrogate children, Sherlock turned to face her and said with a frighteningly calm face and tone, "Please be quiet, Ms. Hudson, hysterics will only make things worse. Go wait for the paramedics."

The use of Sherlock Holmes using the word "please" made Ms. Hudson painfully aware of how dire the situation was, clamped her mouth shut, and complied.

"I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry," Sherlock spoke over John's limp figure; finally submitting to the water clouding his vision.

Red and blue lights began to flash outside 221B and less than a minute later paramedics swamped the flat with a somber faced Lestrade behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

******A/N: Don't hate me, but I'm going to Australia next week and won't have wi-fi there either. So-ahem, I've prepared part 1 of part 3 for you because Rayee, alleyalice, and luv dove -10's reviews all inspired me to get _something_ published (while getting down to the last nitty gritty details of packing and such) to hopefully satiate your needs until I'm back from Oz.**

**A/N 2: Australia was great. The winter was a refreshing change of pace. I also got to watch Doctor Who with my homestay brother, Daniel! He had all the DVDs and a Matt Smith suit t-shirt...I couldn't've been put with a better family!**

**Thank y'all so much for the sweet reviews. This last chapter is dedicated to everyone who's favorited/followed/reviewed which helped spur me on to finish whilst on a long car ride home.**

John stared groggily at the ceiling above him. It was strange; tiled. Not Baker Street. Something was mildly irritating his nose—like some bug had crawled inside. His head hurt, bad; even worse than the hangover he had last week. Or was that two weeks ago? Time had become a very distorted unit of measure.

John's head kept pounding harder and harder. He squeezed his eyes shut tight to keep the light of the room at bay. It wasn't working. John could feel his stomach clenching up. There were voices in the background but he couldn't hear him over the pounding. Attempting to lean over the bed; however restrained by unnoticed bars and tubes on his face, John vomited.

An unrecognizable face came into view and made cooing noises at him; which only made John feel even more sick. He vomited again. After dry heaving and shaking, a warm, moist cloth cleaned the contents of his stomach and nose off his face and out of his whiskers. The hands gently pushed his shoulders back onto the bed and then adjusted the nasal cannula back into his nostrils. John couldn't be sure when he confirmed his suspicions, but he knew he definitely wasn't dead. Something must've gone wrong; he was in a hospital bed.

The slap of footsteps reverberated from across the room and began to grow closer.

"Sir, right now isn't the time too—," the nurse tending to John began.

"Move," A man's voice said gruffly before pushing the nurse out of the way.

Another figure loomed over John. Now he had doubts over whether or not he was alive.

"Honestly," John's nurse began talking to someone else in a huff.

"When you tell this story later, the term we use at Scotland Yard is 'dangerously codependent'," another voice resounded in the background. However, John wasn't listening to Lestrade's voice, he was busy staring at the man staring down at him. His head started to pound again with confusion. Was this actually what death felt like? If it was—it really sucked. But at least _he _was here. Now he could be with Sherlock forever.

"John?" Sherlock's voice asked.

John couldn't help but smile at the sound of that voice. However, Sherlock wasn't smiling; not that John was terribly surprised as Sherlock hardly ever smiled...but he figured in death Sherlock would be happy to see him.

"John, do you remember what happened?" he asked.

"I did it for you," John explained. He wouldn't have to be depressed anymore.

Instead of understanding, Sherlock only seemed more distressed.

"I had to see you again, dying was the only way," John's voice rasped.

"In all my career of imperative impeccable decision making skills, I have only made few mistakes. But this, John, you can forever call me an ass upon," Sherlock's voice seemed to begin breaking.

* * *

"Am I dead?" John finally asked the question.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock replied before wincing; realizing some people would find having the idiocy of their question being singled out as

'rude'. John had been the one to point that out to Sherlock many years ago; up until then he believed he was helping keep the earth's IQ up by telling a person when their 'logic' or two sense was slow-witted in approach.

"John, I just meant that you couldn't possibly be dead," Sherlock moved to pull the metal bars on the side of John's bed down and sit next to him. He then reached out and put his hand upon John's chest, "Do you feel that? That's a heartbeat, _a heartbeat John_," he worked to steady his voice and pulsed his hand more firmly against John; anything to make him see.

"That's the rhythm of your ventricles and arteries opening and closing, it will beat 100,000 times a day, 3,600,000 times a year, and about 2.5 billion times during your lifetime. 7,570 litres of blood moving through over 95,000 kilometres of blood vessels; all done by a muscle the size of your fist...and all proof you're _so_ alive. "

That was not a tear that just slid down Sherlock Holmes' face, it absolutely wasn't. However, those were certainly tears on John's face.

John picked up his wired hand and put it on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock could feel the weakness in the trembling hand.

"Your ventricles and arteries are opening and closing too; beating 100,000 times a day, 3,600,000 times a year, and 2.5 billion times in your life. That's 7,570 litres of blood moving through over 95,000 kilometres of blood vessels...you're also alive—how're you—you _didn't_ have a heartbeat last time I touched you."

_Which certainly wasn't the most difficult part of that farce_, Sherlock thought. He pulled his hand back up to his body so he could steady John's.

"A few years ago you asked me for one last miracle; one last trick up my sleeve...is it so hard to believe that now?"

John smiled slightly, "You're impossible."

"I'm so, so sorry, John," Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper, "I shouldn't have left the drugs around, I shouldn't have left _you_. I thought—I thought you'd be strong enough to handle—" Sherlock broke again. Being mindful of his words was ridiculously difficult.

"I thought I was protecting you. Honestly, I did. If I had thought for one second that it would hurt you so much, I would have let you know..."

"I was a pawn," realization struck John's face, "A pawn in your stupid game."

"You were a pawn in Moiarty's game—for me you're more of a rook," Sherlock began to hastily explain while feelings of anger and betrayal were beginning to coincide within John to create a drug worse than cocaine.

"The only way for people to believe I was dead—the only way—was if the person closest to me believed it too. Being apart was also a necessity. Up until I was standing on that rooftop, I had forgotten why I didn't allow myself to get to close to people. Friends are an open weakness for the enemy; I know that hurts normal people but it's the truth. I had to protect you, John, and the only way to do that was to stop being your friend. On top of St. Bartholomew's I attempted to get you to believe in Moiarty's ploy...anything to get you to willingly walk away from me—of course you didn't believe that for a second," Sherlock smirked slightly at John's loyalty.

"All the same I was foolish. The game Moiarty and I played was high stakes to say the least. We were finally stalemated. He lost his life, and I lost everything else. Even with all the loss, at the end of the day I felt I had bested Jim...until here he is, from beyond the grave, still trying to beat me by playing with the consequences of my mislaid plans."

"You shouldn't worry so much about me," John quipped, Sherlock gave John and his surroundings an incredulous look. "I know I've complained about your methods...but they're amicable and undoubtedly remarkable."

"You and I have shared many perilous dangers, Sherlock."

"None, I fear, causing you to be so close to repose."

"I hope this isn't our last danger faced together," John sincerely supplied, "I can get better and—and things can go back to the way they were."

Sherlock released a breath and looked at the machines supplying oxygen to John and the other various wires and tubes. He knew things suddenly couldn't 'go back to the way they were.' When he got out of college it had taken Sherlock a long time to get out of his drug addictions and the depression caused by being so different. No magic fairy would appear, wave a magic wand, and turn time back to before Moiarty's games. He'd lost so much time with John...hopefully he could make some of those missed heartbeats up. "I was considering retirement, actually."

Both their eyes met, and gazes held for less than 2 seconds before both men burst into laughter.

**Fin**


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